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DRAMATIC LEGENDS 
AND OTHER POEMS 



By 

Padraic Colum 



Wild Earth 

MoGU THE Wanderer, or the Desert 

The Adventures of Odysseus 

AND THE Tale of Troy 
The Golden Fleece 
The King of Ireland's Son 
The Children of Odin 
The Boy Who Knew What the Birds Said 
The Girl Who Sat by the Ashes 
The Boy Apprenticed to an Enchanter 
The Children Who Followed the Piper 



DRAMATIC LEGENDS 
AND OTHER POEMS 



By 
PADRAIC COLUM 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1922 

All rights reserved 



Printed in the United States of America. y 



COPYRIGHT, 1922, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 



Set up and printed. Published October, 1922. 



CONDE NASI PRESS GREENWICH, CONN. 



OCT 25 ^22 



©C1A686469 



DEDICATION 
To M. C. M. C. 

The well — 

They come to it and take 

Their cup- full or their palms-full out of it. 

The well — 

Stones are around it, and an elder bush 
Is there; a high rowan tree; and so 
The well is marked. 

Who knows 

Whence come the waters? Through what 

passages 
Beneath? From what high tors 
Where forests are ? Forests dripping rain ! 
Branches pouring to the ground; trunks, 

barks, roots. 
Letting the streamlets down: Through the 

dark earth 
The water flows, and in that secret flood 
That's called a spring, that finds this little 

hollow. 
Who knows 
Whence come the waters that fill cup and 

palm? 

Sweetheart and comrade, I give you 
The waters* marches and the forest's bound. 
The valley-filling cloud, the trees that set 
The rains beneath their roots, out of this well. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For permission to reprint several of the 
poems that are in this volume acknowledg- 
ments are made to the Editors of 

Poetry, Chicago; The New Republic, 
New York; The Nation, New York; The 
Nation, London; The Theatre Arts Maga- 
zine, New York; The Measure, New York; 
The Dial, New York; The North Ameri- 
can Review, and The Yale Review. 



SECTIONS IN DRAMATIC LYRICS AND 
OTHER POEMS 



1. Poems: Country Songs 

2. Creatures and Things Seen 

3. Reminiscence .... 

4. Dramatic Legends 

Swift's Pastoral . 

The Bird of Jesus 

The Laments of Queen Gormlai 

The Miracle of the Corn . 



I 
21 

31 

55 

51 

65 
68 

74 



POEMS: COUNTRY SONGS 



The Star 



TO A POET 

Below there are white- faced throngs, 
Their march is a tide coming nigher; 
Below there are white-faced throngs, 
Their faith is a banner flmig higher; 
Below there are white-faced throngs, 
White swords they have yet, but red 

songs; 
Place and lot they have lost — hear 

you not? 
For a dream you once dreamed, and 

forgot! 



THE STAR 

A mighty star has drawn a-near, and is 
Now vibrant in the air: 
The trembling, half-divested trees of his 
Bright presence are aware. 

And I behold him in the stream, and see 
Him pass from marge to main: 
What dust will be my flesh and bone ere he. 
That star, is there again! 



Dramatic Legends 



LEGEND 

There is an hour, they say, 
On which your dream has power; 
Then all you wish for comes. 
As comes the lost field-bird 
Down to the island-lights; 
There is an hour, they say, 
That *s woven with your wish: 
In dawn, or dayli* gone. 
In mirk-dark, or at noon. 
In hush, or hum of day. 
May be that secret hour. 

A herd-boy in the rain. 
Who looked o'er stony fields; 
A young man in a street, 
When fife and drum went by. 
Making the sunlight shrill; 
A girl in a lane. 
When the long June twilight 
Made friendly, far-off things. 
Had watch upon the hour: 
The dooms they met are in 
The song my grand-dam sings. 



Gilderoy 



MEN ON ISLANDS 

Can it be that never more 

Men will grow on Islands? 

Ithaka and Eriskey, 

Iceland and Tahiti! 

Must the engines he has forged 

Raven so for spaces, 

That the Islands dwindle down. 

Dwindle down ! — 

Pots that shelve the tap-root's 

growth ? 
Must it be that never more 
Men will flower on Islands? 
Crete and Corsica, Mitylene, 
Aran and lona! 



GILDEROY 

The Smith who made the manacles. 
With bar and bolt, and link and ring. 
Sang out above his hearty blows — 
"I can't have grief for everything." 

As Roger by the rope-walk went 
The bramble bird cheeped up to sing; 



Dramatic Legends 



He cut the wanted coil, and said — 
**I can't have grief for everything." 

The Lad who came to Ladder Lane, 
And saw his hemp cravat a-string — 
"Jack's doom's Jill's dole, but then," 

said he, 
"I can't have grief for everything." 

And I who carried bag and wig, 
Looked up and saw him turn and swing; 
The dog he gave fixed eyes on me — 
Can I have grief for everything? 



THE RUNE-MASTERS 

Arch-scholar they '11 call you, 

Kuno Meyer; 

One knowing the word 

Behind the word; 

Man of learning. 

And of the world too. 

The century's child. 

But who will tell them 
Of the blackbird 
That your heart held? 



The Rune-Master 



On an old thorn-tree 

By an ancient rath 

You heard him sing, 

And with runes you charmed him 

Till he stayed with you, 

Giving clear song. 

He sang o'er all 
That Maravaun 
Told King Guire; 
And he told you how 
Bran heard the singing 
Of a lovely woman 
And sailed for Faerie; 
And of how slain princes 
Kept tryst with women 
Loved beyond 
The pain of death. 
In days when still 
The boat of Mananaun 
Bore towards Eirinn ! 

Arch-scholar they'll call you — 

Nay, Rune-master! 

You read in texts 

Not words only. 

But runes of old time: 



8 Dramatic Legends 

And when you spoke them 
A curlew cried 
Over grass-waste Tara, 
And a cuckoo called 
From the height of Cashel, 
And an eagle flew 
From Emain Machal 

Ochoney ochone! 
That we '11 see no more 
In the Eastern, or 
The Western World 
Your great head over 
The lectern bending, 
Nor hear your lore 
By a pleasant fireside. 

But the runes you Ve read 

Have given us more 

Than the sword might win us: 

May kind saints of Eirinn 

Be beside you 

Where birds on the Living 

Tree sing the Hours. 



T- M. K, 



T. M. K. 

Thorough waters, thorough nations I have 

come 
To lay last offerings at your low abode, 
Brother, and to appeal 
To ashes that were you. 

Since that which none can check has borne 

you 
From my regard, poor brother, take these 

gifts— 
The tokens that are due 
To ancient pieties. 

Yet they are wet, and over- wet with tears. 
With brother's tears; and now I say Farewell: 
Henceforth, and for all time 
Hail, Brother, and Farewell! 



ON THE DEATH OF ROGER 
CASEMENT 

They have hanged Roger Casement to the 

tolling of a bell, 
Ochoney ochy ochonCy ochone! 



lo Dramatic Legends 

And their Smiths, and their Murrays, and 

their Cecils say it 's well, 
OchonCy ochy ochoney ochone! 
But there are outcast peoples to lift that 

spirit high, 
Flayed men and breastless women who 

labored fearfully. 
And they will lift him, lift him, for the eyes 

of God to see. 
And it's well, after all, Roger Casement! 

They have ta'en his strangled body and 
have flung it in a pit, 

OchonCy ochy ochoney ochone! 

And fire of the quicklime is what they've 
brought to it, 

Ochoney ochy ochoney ochone! 

To waste that noble stature, that grave and 
brightening face. 

The princely favor also, and the high 
Castilian grace — 

Putting courtesy and kindliness from emi- 
nence of place — 

But they — they die to dust. 

While 't was yours to die to fire, Roger 
Casement! 



Wandering and Sojourning ii 



WANDERING AND SOJOURNING' 

Spring 

Now, coming on Spring, the days will be 

growing. 
And after Saint Bride's Day my sail I will 

throw; 
Since the thought has come to me I fain would 

be going, 
Till I stand in the middle of the County 

Mayo! 

The first of my days will be spent in Clare- 
morris, 

And in Balla, beside it, Til have drinking and 
sport; 

To Kiltimagh, then, I will go on a visit, 

And there, I can tell you, a month will be 
short. 

I solemnly swear that the heart in me rises. 
As the wind rises up and the mists break 

below, 
When I think upon Carra, and on Gallen 

down from it. 
The Bush of the Mile, and the Plains of 

Mayo! 



12 Dramatic Legends 

Killeadean 's my village, and every good 's in 
it. 

The rasp and blackberry to set to one*s 
tooth; 

And if Raftery stood in the midst of his peo- 
ple, 

Old age would go from him, and he *d step to 
his youth! 

Autumn 

A good stay-at-home season is Autumn; then 

there's work to be done by all: 
Speckled fawns, where the brackens make 

covert, range away undeterred; 
And stags that were seen upon hillocks, now 

give heed to the call. 
To the bellowing call of the hinds, and they 

draw back to the herd. 

A good stay-at-home season is Autumn; the 

brown world's marked into fields; 
The corn is up to its growth; the acorns teem 

in the wood; 
By the side of the down-fallen fort even the 

thornbush yields 
A crop, and there by the rath the hazel nuts 

drop from a load. 



The Poor Girl's Meditation 13 



THE POOR GIRL'S MEDITATION' 

I am sitting here, 

Since the moon rose in the night; 

Kindling a fire, 

And striving to keep it alight: 

The folk of the house are lying 

In slumber deep; 

The cocks will be crowing soon: 

The whole of the land is asleep. 

May I never leave this world 

Until my ill-luck is gone; 

Till I have cows and sheep. 

And the lad that I love for my own: 

I would not think it long, 

The night I would lie at his breast. 

And the daughters of spite, after that. 

Might say the thing they liked best. 

Love covers up hate, 

If a girl have beauty at all: 

On a bed that was narrow and high, 

A three-month I lie by the wall : 

When I bethought on the lad 

That I left on the brow of the hill, 



14 Dramatic Legends 

I wept from dark until dark, 

And my cheeks have the tear-tracks still. 

And, O, young lad that I love, 
I am no mark for your scorn: 
All you can say of me 
Is undowered I was born: 
And if I Ve no fortune in hand, 
Nor cattle nor sheep of my own. 
This I can say, O lad, 
I am fitted to lie my lone! 

LAMENT 

I walk by the shore of a lake 
Where stones drag wet through a wood, 
And I hear the cry of a bird — 
Lone^ lone. 

It cries to the lake, and it cries 
To the stones, and it cries to the wood, 
And it cries to my own slow blood — 
LonCy lone. 

And once I walked by this lake. 
And I heard a like cry from a bird, 
Nor knew what its grief forebode — 
GonCy gone. 



The Sister's Lullaby 15 

Now the child who gathered the nuts, 
And brought them to me through the 

wood — 
The child who gathered the nuts, 
That day, from our life is gone. 



THE SISTER^S LULLABY 

You would not slumber 
If laid at my breast: 
You would not slumber. 

My thoughts are strayed birds, 
My blood is possessed: 
You would not slumber. 

The rain-drops encumber 
The hawthorn's crest: 
You would not slumber. 

The river flood beats 
The swan from her nest: 
You would not slumber. 

Times without number 
Has called the woodquest: 
Times without number. 



1 6 Dramatic Legends 

As oft as she called 
To me you were pressed: 
Times without number. 

Now you 'd not slumber 
If laid at my breast 
Times without number. 

O starling reed-resting, 
I'll rock you to rest: 
So you will slumber. 

OLD SOLDIER 

We wander now who marched before, 
Hawking our bran from door to door, 
While other men from the mill take their flour ; 
So it is to be an Old Soldier. 

Old and sore, one 's like the hound 
Turning upon the stiff frozen ground, 
Nosing the mould, with the night around : 
So it is to be an Old Soldier. 

And we who once rang out like a bell. 
Have nothing now to show or to sell; 
Old bones to carry, old stories to tell : 
So it is to be an Old Soldier. 



The Wife of Tone 17 



THE WIFE OF TONE* 

My son I reared as might the brooding 

partridge 
Rear up an eaglet fall'n from storm-struck- 

nest: 
My son, ah no! one captained for high conflict, 
My chieftain-husband's heir and his bequest. 

No mother's part in him did my soul treasure, 
And he would go, and I could stand alone; 
Ah, so I thought, but now my heart-strings 

measure 
The love, the loss— my son, my little son, 

thou 'rt gone ! 

I see the grey road winding, winding from me, 
And thou upon it exiled and away, 
I turn unto the darkened house beside me — 
Ah, dark this day as on Wolfe Tone's death's 
day! 

But no, no, no ! Up from the sod that 's by me, 
Up, up, with glorious singing springs the 

lark— 
Tis Wolfe Tone's spirit, his, to reconcile me. 
And in a sword-flash, gone, the loneliness, 

the dark! 



1 8 Dramatic Legends 



THE FAIR HILLS OF EIRE 

Bear the love of my heart to my land far 

away. 
And the fair hills of Eire O, 
And to all of Eivir's race that in her valleys 

stay, 
And the fair hills of Eire O. 
That land of mine beloved, where the brown 

thrush's song 
Fills hazel glen and ivied close the Summer 

twilight long: 
Oh, how woeful swells his music for the 

downfall of the Strong, 
On the fair hills of Eir6 O! 



Tis my lone soul's long sorrow that I must 

still be far 
From the fair hills of Eire O, 
Nor watch a maiden coming as through the 

mist a star. 
On the fair hills of Eire O! 



The Fair Hills of Eire 19 

Oh, the honey in her tree-tops where her 

oak-woods darkly grow. 
And the freshness of her cresses where her 

clear well-waters flow, 
And the lushness of her meadows where her 

soft-eyed cattle low. 
On the fair hills of Eire O! 



SHALL I GO BOUND AND YOU GO 
FREE? 

"Shall I go bound and you go free, 
And love one so removed from me ? 
Not so; the falcon o'er my brow 
Hath better quest, I dare avow ! 

"And must I run where you will ride. 
And must I stay where you abide? 
Not so, the feather that I wear 
Is from an Eyrne in the air! 

"And must I climb a broken stair. 
And must I pace a chamber bare? 
Not so, the Brenny plains are wide. 
And there are banners where I ridel" 



CREATURES AND THINGS 

SEEN 



The Wild Ass 23 



THE WILD ASS 

The wild ass lounges, legs struck out 
In vagrom unconcern: 
The tombs of Achsemedian kings 
Are for those hooves to spurn. 

And all of rugged Tartary 
Lies with him on the ground. 
The Tartary that knows no awe, 
That has nor ban nor bound. 

The wild horse from the herd is plucked 
To bear a saddle's weight; 
The boar is one keeps covert, and 
The wolf runs with a mate; 

But he's the solitary of space, 
Curbless and unbeguiled; 
The only being that bears a heart 
Not recreant to the wild. 



THE VULTURES 

Foul-feathered and scald-necked, 
They sit in evil state; 
Raw marks upon their breasts 
As on men's wearing chains. 



24 Dramatic Legends 

Impure, though they may plunge 
Into the morning's springs. 
And spirit-dulled, though they 
Command the heavens* heights. 

Angels of Foulness, ye. 
So fierce against the dead! 
Sloth on your muffled wings. 
And speed within your eyes! 



THE BISON 

How great a front is thine — 
A lake of majesty! 
Assyria knew the sign — 
The god-incarnate king! 

A lake of majesty — 
The lion's drowns in it! 
And thy placidity — 
A moon within that lake! 

As if thou still dost own 
A world, thou takest breath — 
Earth-shape, and strength of stone, 
A Titan-sultan's child! 



The Pigeons 2^ 



THE PIGEONS 

Odalisques, odalisques, 

Treading the pavement 

With feet pomegranate-stained: 

When we *d less years 

We bartered for, bought you — 

Ah, then, we knew you. 

Odalisques, odalisques. 

Treading the pavement 

With feet pomegranate-stained! 

Queens of the air, — 

Aithra, lole, 

Eos or Auge, 

Taking new beauty 

From the sun's evening brightness. 

Gyring in light 

As nymphs play in waters — 

Aithra, lole, 

Eos or Auge ! 

Then down on our doorsteps, 
Gretchen and Dora . . . 



26 Dramatic Legends 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE 

With sapphire for her crown, 
And with the Libyan wine 
For lustre of her eyes; 
With azure for her feet 
(It is her henna stain); 
Then iris for her vest. 
Rose, ebony, and flame, 
She lives a thing enthralled, 
In forests that are old. 
As old as is the moon. 



THE HUMMING BIRD 

Up from the navel of the world. 
Where Cuzco has her founts of fire. 
The passer of the Gulf he comes. 

He lives in air, a bird of fire. 
Charted by flowers still he comes. 
Through spaces that are half the world. 

With glows of suns and seas he comes; 
A life within our shadowed world 
That*s bloom, and gem, and kiss of fire! 



The Monkeys 27 



THE MONKEYS 

Two little creatures 
With faces the size of 
A pair of pennies 
Are clasping each other: 
"Ah, do not leave me," 
One says to the other. 
In the high monkey- 
Cage in the beast-shop. 

There are no people 
To gape at them now. 
For people are loth to 
Peer in the dimness; 
Have they not builded 
Streets and playhouses, 
Sky-signs and bars 
To lose the loneliness 
Shaking the hearts 
Of the two little monkeys ? 

Yes. But who watches 
The penny-small faces 
Can hear the voices: 
"Ah, do not leave me; 
Suck I will give you, 



28 Dramatic Legends 

Warmth and clasping, 
And if you slip from 
This beam, I can never 
Find you again." 

Dim is the evening. 

And chill is the weather; 

There, drawn from their colored 

Hemisphere, 

The apes liliputian 

With faces the size of 

A pair of pennies. 

And voices as low as 

The flow of my blood. 



IN THE CAROLINA WOODS 

Not in a cavern where the winds 

Trample with battle call — 

But in these woods, in these deep woods 

Where branch and branch let fall 

Not moss, but grey and cobweb beards. 

Kings' cabalistic beards — 

Here you should lie, you kings of eld, 
Barbarossa, Boabdil, 



The Hornet's Nest 29 

And Czar Lazar, and Charlemagne; Arthur 

and Gaelic Finn — 
Here where the muffling Spanish moss 
Forests with forests fill. 



AN INDIAN SHOWING FEATS 

The quickness that he won in the death 

chase, 
Out on the plains, five hundred moons 

ago; 
The hardness wrought by hungers, and the 

skill 
That notched the hardness, arrow to that 

bow: 

He shows them these, while these depart 

from him. 
Like warriors softly shod, with bodies bent; 
They reach the mesa bluff; around it howl 
Coyotes, in long, lonely discontent. 



THE HORNET'S NEST 

— How strangely like a churchyard skull. 
The thing that's there amongst the leaves! 



30 Dramatic Legends 

— A hornet*s nest; but stir the branch 
And they '11 be round your head and ears ! 

— Livid, uneyed, articulate. 

How like a skull their nests are made! 

— How like to hornets* nests the skulls 
On many a one that still has flesh! 



REMINISCENCE 



Reminiscence 33 



REMINISCENCE 

I 

The Swallows sang 
Alien to us are 

Your fields, and your cotes, and your 
glebes; 
Secret our nests are 

Although they be built in your eaves; 
Uneaten by us are 

The grains that grow in your fields. 

The Weathercock on the 

barn answered 

Not alien to ye are 

The powers of un-earth-bound beings: 
Their curse ye would bring 

On our cotes, and our glebes, and our 
fields, 
If aught should befall 

The brood that is bred in the eaves. 

The Swallows answered 
If aught should befall 

Our brood that *s not traveled the seas, 



34 Dramatic Legends 

Your temples would fall, 

And blood ye would milk from your 
beeves ; 
Against them the curse we would bring 

Of un-earth-bound beings! 

II 

The blackbird there was singing, 
"Oh, now you know my sort; 
I 'd rather have a guinea 
Than I would a five pound note. 

"For a guinea it would sink. 
And a note it would swim; 
And yellow is a guinea. 
And yellow is my bill. 

"And since you Ve heard my singing. 
And since you know my sort. 
You *d better leave your guinea. 
And take your five pound note." 

Ill 

I saw the wind to-day: 
I saw it in the pane 
Of glass upon the wall: 



Reminiscence 35 

A moving thing, — 'twas like 
No bird with widening wing, 
No mouse that runs along 
The meal bag under the beam. 

I think it like a horse, 

All black, with frightening mane. 

That springs out of the earth, 

And tramples on his way. 

I saw it in the glass, 

The shaking of a mane: 

A horse that no one rides! 

IV 

Meet for a town where pennies have few pairs 
In children's pockets, this toy-booth with its 

wares — 
Jew's harps and masks and kites. 
And paper-lanterns with their farthen-lights. 
All in a dim-lit window to be seen; 
Within— 

The walls that have the patches of the damp, 
The counter where there burns the murky 

lamp, 

And then, the counter and the shelf between — 
The dame. 

Meager, grey-polled, lame. 



36 Dramatic Legends 

So she is here since times legendary — 
A bird of little worth, a sparrow, say. 
Whose crib 's in some neglected passage-way, 
And one *s left wondering who brings crumbs 

to her; 
Soft-voiced and friendly-spoken, she will hop 
The inches of her crib, this narrow shop 
When you step in to be her customer. 

How's custom? Bad enough; she had not 

sold 
Six kites this windy year for boys to hold — 
She sold kites by the gross in times agone; 
Marbles, none at all — 
The children had no money to make call. 
Wasn't it poor, the town, 
Where boys 

Could not buy marbles, leaving other toys 
Like tops and balls — 
Where little girls could hardly pay for dolls? 

But she's not tragical — no, not a bit — 
She laughs as she talks to you — that is it! 
Her eyes are like the farthen-candle's light 
In paper-lanterns when they burn bright; 
And she herself is like a kite upborne, 
A paper-kite held by a string that's worn; 



Reminiscence 37 

And like a Jew's harp when you strike its 

tongue — 
That way her voice goes on! 

Well, Miler Dowdall, the great pugilist, 
Who had the world once beneath his fist. 
Would step in here to buy his pockets full; 
We used to see him with deft hands held up 
To win the champion's belt or silver cup. 
Upon the hoardings on our way to school; 
Now Miler's is a name that 's blown by! 

How strange to think that she is still inside 
After so many turns of the tide — 
Since this lit window was a dragon's eye 
To turn us all to wonder coming nigh — 
Since this dim window was a dragon's eye! 

V 

Over old walls the Laburnums 

hang cones of fire; 
Laburnums that grow out of old 

mould in old gardens: 

Old men and old maids who have money or 

pensions 
Have shuttered themselves in the pales of old 

gardens. 



38 Dramatic Legends 

The gardens grow wild; out of their mould the 

Laburnums 
Draw cones of fire. 

And we, who Ve no lindens, no palms, no ce- 
dars of Lebanon, 

Rejoice you have gardens with mould, old 
men and old maids: 

The bare and the dusty streets have now the 

Laburnums, 
Have now cones of fire ! 

VI 

Down a street that once I lived in 
You used pass, a honey-seller, 
And the town in which that street was 
Was the shabbiest of all places; 
You were different from the others 
Who went by to barter meanly: 
Different from the man with colored 
Windmills for the children's pennies; 
Different from the drab purveyor 
With her paper screens to fill up 
Chill and empty fireplaces. 

You went by, a man upstanding. 
On your head a wide dish, holding 



Reminiscence 39 

Dark and golden lumps of honey; 
You went slowly, like an old horse 
That 's not driven any longer. 
But that likes to take an amble. 

No one ever bought your honey, 
No one ever paid a penny 
For a single comb of sweetness; 
Every house was grim unto you 
With foregone desire of eating 
Bread whose taste had sweet of honey. 

Yet you went, a man contented 
'S though you had a king to call on 
Who would take you to his parlor, 
And buy all your stock of honey. 
On you went, and in a sounding 
Voice just like the bell of evening, 
Told us of the goods you carried. 
Told us of the dark and golden 
Treasure dripping on your wide dish. 

You went by, and no one named you ! 

VII 

"The bond-woman comes to the boorie; 
She sings with a heart grown wild. 
How a hundred rivers are flowing 
Between herself and her child. 



40 Dramatic Legends 

"Then comes the lad with the hazel. 
And the folding-star is in the rack; 
'Night *s a good herd' to the cattle, 
He sings 'She brings all things back/ " 

VIII 

The crows still fly to that wood, and out of 

that wood she comes. 
Carrying her load of sticks, a little less now 

than before. 
Her strength being less; she bends as the 

hoar rush bends in the wind; 
She will sit by the fire, in the smoke, her 

thoughts on the root and the living 

branch no more. 

The crows still fly to that wood, that wood 

that is sparse and gapped; 
The last one left of the herd makes way by 

the lane to the stall. 
Lowing distress as she goes; the great trees 

there are all down; 
No fiddle sounds in the hut to-night, and a 

candle only gives light to the hall. 

The trees are sparse and gapped, yet a 
sapling spreads on the joints 



Reminiscence 41 

Of the wall, till the castle stones fall down 

into the moat: 
The last one who minds that our race once 

stood as a spreading tree, 
She goes, and thorns are bare, where the 

blackbird, his full songs done, strikes 

one metal note. 

IX 

The Mountain Thrush I say. 
But I am thinking of her, Nell the Rambler: 
She 'd come down to our houses bird-alone. 
From some haunt that was hers, and we would 

see her 
Drawing the water from the well one day. 
For one house or another, or we'd hear her 
Garrulous with the turkeys down the street. 
We children. 

From neighbour's house to neighbour's house 

she 'd go 
Until one day we 'd see 
Her worn cloak hanging behind our door; 
And then, that night, we 'd hear 
Of Earl Gerald: how he rides abroad. 
His horse's hooves shod with the weighty 

silver. 



42 Dramatic Legends 

And how he '11 ride all roads till those silver 

shoes 
Are worn thin; 

As thin as the cat's ears before the fire, 
Upraised in such content before the fire. 
And making little lanterns in the firelight. 

The Mountain Thrush, when every way 's a 

hard one. 
Hops on in dumbness till a patch of sunlight. 
Falling, will turn her to a wayside song: 
So it was with her. Rambler Nell, a shelter, 
A bit upon the board, and she flowed on 
With rambler's discourse — tales, and rhymes, 

and sayings. 
With child's light in her worn eyes, and 

laughter 
To all her words. 

The lore she had — 

'Twas like a kingly robe, on which long rains 
Have fallen and fallen, and parted 
The finely woven web, and have washed away 
The kingly colors, but have left some threads 
Still golden, and some feathers still as shining 
As the kingfisher's. While she sat there, not 
spinning, 



Reminiscence 43 

Not weaving anything but her own fancies, 
We ate potatoes out of the ash, and thought 

them 
Like golden apples out of Tiprobane. 

When winter's over-long, and days that 

famish 
Come one upon another like snow-flakes. 
The Mountain Thrush makes way down to 

our houses: 
Takes doorstep-shelter, 
Hops round for crumbs, and stays a while a 

comer 
Upon our floors. 

She did not think 

Bread of dependence bitter; three went with 

her — 
Hunger, Sorrow, and Loneliness, and they 
Had crushed all that makes claims, though 

they *d not bent her. 
Nor emptied her of trust — what was it led 

her 
From house to house, but that she always 

looked for 
A warmer welcome at the hearth ahead ? 



44 Dramatic Legends 

So she went on until it came one day 
The Mountain Thrush's heart-stop on the 
way. 

X 

An old man said, "I saw 

The chief of the things that are gone; 

A stag with head held high; 

A doe, and a fawn; 

"And they were the deer of Ireland 
That scorned to breed within bound: 
The last; they left no race 
Tame on a pleasure ground. 

"A stag, with his hide all rough 
With the dew, and a doe and a fawn; 
Nearby, on their track on the mountain 
I watched them, two and one, 

"Down to the Shannon going — 

Did its waters cease to flow. 

When they passed, they that carried the 

swiftness. 
And the pride of long ago? 



Reminiscence 45 

"The last of the troop that had heard 

Finn's and Oscar's cry; 

A doe and a fawn, and before, 

A stag with head held high!" 

XI 

"A Stranger you came to me over the Sea, 
But welcome I made you, Seumas-a-ree, 
And shelter I gave you, my sons set to ward 

you, 
Red war I faced for you, Seumas-a-ree. 

"Now a craven you go from me, over the 

sea. 
But my best sons go with you, Seumas-a-ree; 
Foreign graves they will gain, and for those 

who remain 
The black hemp is sown — och, Seumas-a-ree! 

"But the Boyne shall flow back from the far 
Irish Sea, 

On the causeway of Aughrim our victory 
shall be: 

Two centuries of years and the child on the 
knee 

Will be rocked to this cronach, Seumas- 
a-ree!" 



46 Dramatic Legends 

XII 

You blew in 
Where Jillin Brady kept up state on nothing, 
Married her daughter, and brought to Jillin's 

house 
A leash of dogs, a run of ferrets, a kite 
In a wired box; linnets and larks and gold- 
finches 
In their proper cages, and you brought with 
you this song: 

If you come to look for me. 
Perhaps you '11 not me find: 
For I '11 not in my Castle be — 
Inquire where horns wind. 

Before I had a man-at-arms 
I had an eager hound: 
Then was I known as Reynardine, 
In no crib to be found. 

You used to say 
Five hounds' lives were a man's life, and 

when Teague 
Had died of old age, and when Fury that was 

a pup 
When Teague was maundering, had turned 

from hill to hearth 
And lay in the dimness of a hound's old age, 



Reminiscence 47 

I went with you again, and you were upright 
As the circus rider standing on his horse; 
Quick as a goat that will take any path, and 

lean — 
Lean as a lash; you would have no speech 
With wife or child or mother-in-law, till you 
Were out of doors and standing on the ditch, 
Ready to face the river or the hill — 

The Hen- wife's son once heard the 

grouse 
Talk to his soft- voiced mate; 
And what he heard the heath-poult 

say, 
The loon would not relate. 

Impatient in the yard he grew. 

And patient on the hill; 

Of cocks and hens he 'd take no 

charge, 
And he went with Reynardine. 

Lean days when we were idle as the birds, 
That will not preen their feathers, but will 

travel 
To taste a berry, or pull a shred of wool 
That they will never use. We pass the 

bounds: 
A forest's grave, the black bog, is before us, 



48 Dramatic Legends 

And in its very middle you will show me 

The snipe's nest that is lonelier than the 
snipe 

That 's all that 's there; and then a stony 
hill, 

A red fox climbing, pausing, looking round his 
tail 

At us travailing against wind and rain 

To reach the river-spring where Finn or Fer- 
gus 

Hardened a spear, back of a thousand years. 

And still your cronies are what they were 

then — 
The hounds that know the hill and know the 

hearth; 
(One is Fury that 's as old as Argos now 
That crawled to Odysseus coming back) ; 
Your minstrels, the blackbird singing still 
When kites are leaving, crows are going 

home, 
And the thrush in the morning like a spectre 

showing 
Beside the day-spring; and your visitors, 
The cuckoo that will swing upon a branch, 
The corncrake with quick head between the 

grass-tufts. 



Reminiscence 49 

And still your song is what it used to be — 
About that Reynardine who came to lord 
A Castle (O that Castle with its trees!), 
Who heard the horns, and let his turret 

grow 
The foxglove where his banner should be 
seen: 

The hawk is for the hill, he cried. 

The badger for the glen; 

The otter for the river-pools — 

Amen, amen, amen! 

XIII 

It would not be far for us to go back to the 

age of bronze: 
Then you were a King's daughter; your father 

had curraghs on shore, 
A herd of horses, good tillage upon the face 

of the hills. 
And clumps of cattle beyond them — the 

black and broad-horned kine. 

And I, I was good at the bov/, but had no men, 

no herds. 
And you would have been bestowed in a while 

on some unrenowned 



50 Dramatic Legends 

Ulysses, or on the old King to whom they 

afterwards raised 
Three stones as high as the elk's head (this 

cromlech where we now sit). 

How fair you were when you walked there 

beside the old forest trees! 
So fair that I thought you would change and 

fly away a white swan! 
And then we were mates for play; all-eagle 

thereafter you grew 
To drive me to range the tempest, King's 

child of the hero-age! 

I called three times as an owl: through the 

gaps where the herders watched 
You ran, and we climbed the height where 

the brackens pushed at our knees; 
And we lay where the brackens drew the 

earth-smell out of the earth, 
And we journeyed and bafiled the fighters of 

ill-wishing Kings! 

It would not be far for us to go back to the 

age of bronze! 
The fire left there by the nomads is lone as a 

burning ship! 



Reminiscence 5 1 



We eat them as we fare along, green ears of 

the wild wheat; 
At last, a King, I relieve a good clan from a 

dragon's spleen! 

Pieces of amber I brought you, big as a bow- 
man's thumbs, 

Tr ampets I left beside you, wrought when the 
smiths had all art, 

A dancing-bird that I caught you— they are 
in the age of bronze: 

I bring you; you bring me again, the love, the 
triumph, the strife! 

XIV 

"The blackbird's nest in the briar, 
The sea-gulls* nests on the ground— 
They're nests, and they're more than nests," 

said he, 
"They are tokens I have found. 

"Here, where the rain-dashed briar is 
A mark in the empty glade. 
The blackbird's nest is seen," he said, 
"Clay-rimmed, uncunningly made; 



52 Dramatic Legends 

"By the inland lake, its shore. 
Where the surgeless water shoves, 
The sea-gulls have their nests," he said, 
As low as the catties* hooves." 

I heard a poet say it. 
The sojourner of a night; 
His head was up to the rafter. 
Where he stood in a candle's light. 

"Your houses are like the sea-gulls' 
Nests — they are scattered and low; 
Like the blackbirds* nests in the briar," he 

said, 
*'Uncunningly made — even so. 

"But close to the ground are reared 
The wings that have widest sway. 
And the birds that sing best in the wood," 

he said, 
"Were bred with their breasts to the clay. 

"YouVe wildness — I Ve turned it to song; 
You've strength — I Ve turned it to wings; 
The welkin 's for your conquest then. 
The wood to your music rings; 



Reminiscence 53 

'*Till your salt shall lose its savor, 

And your virgin soil be cropped; 

Till you own like other peoples; 

And the breath of your need be stopped/' 

I heard a poet say it. 
The sojourner of a night; 
His head was up to the rafter 
Where he stood in a candle's light. 



DRAMATIC LEGENDS 



Swift's Pastoral 57 



SWIFT'S PASTORAL 

A story that has for its background Saint 
Patrick' s Purgatory, 

Characters: Jonathan Swift and Esther 
Vanhomrigh, 

Esther 

I know the answer: 'tis ingenious. 

I 'm tired of your riddles. Doctor Swift. 

Swift 

Faith, so am I. 

Esther 

But that 's no reason why you '11 be splenetic. 

Swift 

Then let us talk. 

Esther 

But will you talk, too? Oh, is there nothing 

For you to show your pupil on this highway? 

Swift 

The road to Dublin, and the road that leads 

Out of this sunken island. 



58 Dramatic Legends 

Esther 

I see a Harper: 

A Harper and a country lout, his fellow, 

Upon the highway. 

Swift 

I know the Harper. 

Esther 

The Doctor knows so much, but what of that ? 

He '11 stay splenetic. 

Swift 

I have seen this Harper 

On many a road. I know his name, too — 

I know a story that they tell about him. 

Esther 

And will it take the pucker off his brow 

If Cadenus to Vanessa tell the tale? 

Swift 

God knows it might! His name 's O'Caro- 

lan — 
Turlough O'Carolan; and there is a woman 
To make the story almost pastoral. 

Esther 

Some Sheelah or some Oonagh, I '11 engage. 



Swift's Pastoral 59 

Swift 

Her name 

Was Bridget Cruise. She would not wed him, 

And he wed one who had another name, 

And made himself a Minstrel, but a Minstrel 

Of consequence. His playing on the harp 

Was the one glory that in Ireland stayed 

After lost battles and old pride cast down. 

Where he went men would say: 

"Horses we may not own, nor swords may 

carry, 
But Turlough O'Carolan plays upon the harp, 
And Turlough O'Carolan's ten fingers bring us 
Horses and swords, gold, wine, and victory." 

Esther 

Oh, that is eloquence! 

Swift 

I know their rhapsodies. But to O'Carolan: 

He played, and drank full cups; made proper 

songs 
In praise of banquets, wine-cups, and young 

maids — 
Things easily praised. And then when he 

was old — 

Esther 
How old? 



6o Dramatic Legends 

Swift 

Two score of years and ten. 

Esther 

But that's not old! 

Swift 

And that 's not old! Good God, how soon 

we grow 
Into the Valley of the Shadow of Death! — 
Not into the Valley, Vanessa, mark, of Death, 
But into the shadow! Two score of years and 

ten — 
Have we not three score and some more to 

live? 
So has the tree that 's withered at the top — 
Dead in the head! Aye, we, Vanessa, grow 
Into the Shadow, and in the Shadow stay 
So long! 

Esther 

I thought the story would divert Cadenus. 

Swift 

It will, it will, Vanessa. What was I 

Just saying? 

Esther 

When he was old — 



Swift's Pastoral 6i 

Swift 

When he was old 

And blind — did I say he was blind? 

Esther 

You did not say it. 

Swift 

He 's blind — not book-blind, but stone-blind. 

Fie cannot see 

The wen that makes two heads upon the 

fellow 
That goes beside him, hunched up with the 

harp; 
He cannot see 

The Justice to the assizes riding 
With soldiers all in red to give him state. 
He cannot see 
The beggar^s lice and sores. 

I tell a story: 

When this O'Carolan was old and blind, 
As I have said, he made the pilgrimage: 
'Twas to . . . No, no, 'twas not the place 
That Fm proscribed to, but yet one that 's 

called 
Saint Patrick's Purgatory. 



62 Dramatic Legends 

*Tis on an island in a lake, a low 

Island or islet. The water round 

Is dun, unsunned; there are no meadows near, 

No willows grow, no lark nor linnet sings; 

The banks there take a bleakness from the 

clouds. 
A fissure in the island leads down to 
The Purgatory of Souls, their fable says. 

And now the Harper is but one of those. 
The countless wretches, who have brought 

their sores 
To that low island, and brought darkened 

spirits — 
Such stream has flowed there for a thousand 

years. 
I do not know 
What length of time the Harper stays, while 

crowds 
Are shambling all around him, weeping, 

praying. 
Famishing themselves; or drinking the dun 

water 
Of the lake for wine; or kneeling, with their 

knees 
On sharpened stones; or crowded 
In narrow, stony cells. 



Swift's Pastoral 63 

Esther 
It is a place 
Papistical. 

Swift 

It is a place 

Most universal. Do we not walk 

Upon a ground that 's drenched with tears, 

and breathe 
An air that *s thickened with men's darkened 

spirits? 
Aye, and on an islet, 

Suffering pain, and hearing cries of wretches: 
Cut off, remote, banished, alone, tormented! 
Name the place as you will, or let it be 
Saint Patrick's Purgatory. 

But comes a time the blind man rows to shore 
From that low island. He touches shore, and 

cries 
"Hands for a blind man's help!" and hands 

were held him — 
He touched a hand. 

Here then 's the pastoral 
The hand, the fingers of the hand, the clasp. 
The spirit flowing through — he knew them 
all; 



64 Dramatic Legends 

He knew all well, and in an instant knew 

them, 
And he cried out, "The hand of Bridget 

Cruise!" 



Oh, in the midmost of our darkened spirits 
To touch a hand, and know the truth within 

it — 
That truth that's clasped, that holds, the 

truth that 's all 
For us — for every day we live, the truth! 
To touch that hand, and then once more to 

turn — 
To turn around upon the world's highway. 
And go alone — poor hand, poor hand! 

But she 

This Bridget Cruise, was leaving that dull 

shore 
For that low island, and had cares beyond 
The memory of O'Carolan. Well, they 

passed. 
He going and she coming; well, and then 
He took his harp, and the country lout, his 

fellow. 
Went with him, as we see them going now. 



The Bird of Jesus 65 

Esther 

They ' ve passed : there is no one now beside us. 

And will you take my hand? You used to 

call me 
A white witch, but there is no witchery 
In this plain hand of mine! 

You Ve told a double story, Doctor Swift. 



THE BIRD OF JESUS 

It was pure indeed. 

The air we breathed in, the light we saw, 
I and my brother, when we played that day. 
Or piped to one another; then there came 
Two young lads of an age with one another. 
And with us two, and these two played with 

us. 
And went away. 

Each had a bearing that was like a prince's. 
Yet they were simple lads and had the kind- 
ness 
Of our own folk — lads simple and unknowing: 
Then, afterwards, we went to visit them. 



66 Dramatic Legends 

Theirs was a village that was not far off, 
But out of reach — toward elbow, not toward 

hand: 
And what was there were houses — 
Houses and some trees — 
And it was like a place within a fold. 

We found the lads. 

And found them still as simple and unknow- 
ing, 

And played with them: we played outside the 
stall 

Where worked the father of the wiser lad — 

Not brothers were the boys, but cousins* 
children. 

There was a pit: 

We brought back clay and sat beside the stall. 

And made birds out of clay; and then my 

brother 
Took up his bird and flung it in the air: 
His playmate did as he. 
And clay fell down upon the face of clay. 

And then I took 

The shavings of the board the carpenter 
Was working on, and flung them in the air. 
And watched them streaming down. 



The Bird of Jesus 67 

There would be nought to tell 
Had not the wiser of the lads took up 
The clay he shaped: a little bird it was; 
He tossed it from his hand up to his head: 
The bird stayed in the air. 

what delight we had 

To see it fly and pause, that little bird, 
Sinking to earth sometimes, and sometimes 

rising 
As though to fly into the very sun; 
At last it spread out wings and flew, and 

flew. 
Flew to the sun! 

1 do not think 

That we played any more, or thought of play- 
ing. 
For every drop of blood our bodies held 
Was free and playing, free and playing 

then. 
Four lads together on the bench we sat: 
Nothing was in the open air around us. 
And yet we thought something was there for 

us — 
A secret, charmed thing. 



68 Dramatic Legends 

So we went homeward; by soft ways we went 
That wound us back to our familiar place. 
Some increase lay upon the things we saw: 
I '11 speak of grasses, but you '11 never know 
What grass was there; words wither it and 

make it 
Like to the desert children's dream of grass; 
Lambs in the grass, but I will not have told 

you 
What fleece of purity they had to show; 
I '11 speak of birds, but I will not have told you 
How their song filled the heart; and when I 

speak 
Of him, my brother, you will never guess 
How we two were at one! 

Even to our mother we had gained in grace! 



THE LAMENTS OF QUEEN GORMLAP 

Thou art lone to-night and unlit; no more 

than a cairn art thou 
To the dead, O House of Kings! 

Thou that didst have thy feasts, thou that 

didst have thy glow, 
Thou art lone to-night and unlit! 



Lament of Qjueen Gormlai 69 

Every Kingdom must pass; one Kingdom, 

one only, endures ! 
Thou art lone to-night and unlit, and I am 

remembering Niall ! 



II 



Din of a wedding there! To whomsoever it 

brings 
Delight, there is one to whom each loud 

voice brings a grief: 
O woman, handfasted, besought — the like 

my lot was once! 

And Thou, the Giver of Dooms! Thou hast 
deserved from me 

Reproach, why didst thou slay King Aedh's 
upright son ? 

Were he in captor's hands, gold and swift 
steeds would go 

To ransom him, and more— all men 's remem- 
brances ! 

Were he in captor's hands, and then were he 
set free 

Unransomed, 'twere the meed of all that he 
bestowed! 



70 Dramatic Legends 

And I, what would I bring to ransom him who 

gave 
Out of one spoil to me no less than twelve 

score kine? 
White bed on which he lay — white bed to 

which would come 
The men of Oriel — thou art now without thy 

pride! 
A grief it is to me, white one, to see thee thus ! 
His tunic is beside, but he who made it brave 
In Cenannas now lies, alone, and cold, and 

dead. 

When once my hero went in battle from 

Armagh, 
He said, "If one meet death, and one of us 

abide 
What should the living do?" I answered him, 

"O King, 
If one should meet with death, let both of us 

be brought 
To share a single grave in Aileach's quiet 

ground." 
"If thou, O Gormlai, be first that's laid in 

earth. 
No woman will I take, no mirth henceforth 

I'll know." 



Lament of Queen Gormlai 71 
III 

Lift thy foot, take it away. 
From my Niall's side, O Monk: 
Too heavily thou heapest clay, 

Monk! 

Too long, I think, thou hast been nigh, 
Heaping clay on Niall's grave: 
At his side I used to lie, 
OMonk! 

Too long has he, my bosom's friend. 
Been in the dark, there where his feet 
Do not reach the coffin's end, 
Too long. 

Not by my good will his head 
Is underneath that cross you raise: 
Nor that the flagstone on his bed 
Is placed. 

Like to Deirdre when she stood 

Watching Naisi's burial. 

Till her heart burst out in blood, 

1 stand. 



72 Dramatic Legends 

I am Gormlai, she who made 
Verses that the learned knew: 
Would that upon me were laid 
That stone. 

Lift thy foot, take it away, 
From my NialFs side, O Monk: 
Too long hast thou been heaping clay: 
Lift thy foot! 



IV 



A man's hound 

Is given no credit where it's not been followed: 

Outlandish and disturbing it will seem. 

And one unloved — 

Her presence draws affronts to corner and 

nook. 
Even as the hound whose course has not 

been told. 

Should I say 

The raven's black, they '11 hurtle around my 

words: 
White feathers they will throw into my face. 



Lament of Queen Gormlai 73 

Be my walk 

Crooked or straight, be it queenly or abased, 

The Leinstermen will say it is my spite. 

Bare yon hill 

That 's had its copse stripped off; the 

shoulder 's bare 
Where there is none to put an arm across. 

Open 's the warp 

Upon the gears— a tale they tell in this 

house — 
Where children there are none to weave a 

strength. 

As it *s with a man: 

Out of all women he 's matched with only one; 

And as a woman 's mated with one man. 

So was Niall 

The unstained King, the bounteous, upright 
man 

A match for me, and I a match for him. 

Long am I 

In Muiregan's house: worn am I: I cannot 

Abide with them, I with my broken days. 



74 Dramatic Legends 



THE MIRACLE OF THE CORN* 

People in the Legend: 

Fardorrougha a Farmer 

Sheila Fardorrougha's wife 

Paudeen Fardorrougha*s ser- 
vant, a Fool 

AisLiNN A child 
Three Women 

Shaun o* the Bog A Poor Man 

The action passes in a Farmer s house in Ire- 
land in the old times. 

Scene: The interior of Fardorrougha s 
house. The door is at back R; the hearth L, 
the window R are only conventionally repre- 
sented. What is actually shown is a bin for 
corn, shelves with vessels, benches, and a shrine. 
The bin projects from back C; the shelves with 
vessels are each side of the bin; the shrine is R; 
it holds a small statue of the Virgin; a rosary 
of large beads hangs from it; the benches are 
R and L. One is at the conventional fireplace , 

*Corn is used in the sense of any kind of" grain — as it is used in 
Ireland and England — the bread-stuff and the symbol of fertility. 



The Miracle of the Corn 75 



and the other is down from the conventional 
door. 

All the persons concerned in the action are on 
the scene when it opens ^ and they remain on the 
scene. They only enter the action when they go 
up to where the bin is. Going back to the places 
they had on the benches takes them out of the 
action. 

On the bench near the hearth sit the people 
of Fardorrougha s household — Fardorrougha^ 
Sheila, Paudeen, Aislinn. On the bench near 
the door sit the strangers — three women, one of 
whom has a child with her, and Shaun d* the 
Bog. The people are dressed in greys and 
browns, and brown is the color of the interior. 
The three women and Shaun 0' the Bog are 
poorly dressed; the women are barefooted. 
Paudeen is dressed rudely, and sandals of hide 
are bound across his feet. Fardorrougha, 
Sheila, and Aislinn are comfortably dressed. 



Paudeen 

They 're moaning still: 

The cattle are a long time moaning now, 

Day in, day out; and will they never stop 

Their moaning, Master Fardorrougha? 



76 Dramatic Legends 

Fardorrougha 

We could drive the cows 

To another place, but the house would not 

be safe 
While we were gone; Paudeen, you know 
There are those outside who would break in 

my door. 

Paudeen 

Aye, the people 

Are bad from want. They 're worse off than 

the cattle: 
The people have to watch 
The black rain and it falling all the day. 

Fardorrougha 

We Ve hay 

For our own cows; give them a lock 

Of what the widow of Seumas saved. 

Paudeen 

Is it the hay 

That's under the hurdles behind the hedge? 

Fardorrougha 

That hay: 

She put lean beasts upon me, and she owes 

me 
Their fattening. 



The Miracle of the Corn 77 



{Paudeen goes back to his place on the bench. 
Aislinn comes to the bin.) 

Fardorrougha 
What child is this? 

Aislinn 

Aislinn is my name. 

Fardorrougha 

Who was it 

Gave you that name? It is strange to name 

Anyone Dream! 

Aislinn 

My own people 

Gave me that name. And now you'll wonder 

What brings me to your house. Sheila, your 

wife. 
Has brought me here to keep her company. 

Fardorrougha 

And you are welcome. There are no young 
ones here. 

Aislinn 

I am well used 

To doing things about a house, and I 

Can sweep the floor, and put the fire down, 

And mind the children. 



78 Dramatic Legends 

Fardorrougha 

There are no children in the house youVe 

come to: 
Are you 
Afeard of me? 

AlSLINN 

No, Fardorrougha, Tm not afeard. 

Fardorrougha 

You are like 

The brown bird in the cage, Aislinn. 

AlSLINN 

What has Sheila 

Upon her altar? I would like to see: 

It is the image of the Mother of God! 

O why will the rain. 

Dear Mother of God, keep falling? It de- 
stroyed 

The crop, before the crop was out of the 
ground; 

Why will the black rain keep falling now? 

{Fardorrougha goes hack to the bench. 
Sheila goes to Aislinn,) 

Sheila 

It is the will of God. 



The Miracle of the Corn 79 

AlSLINN 

God's will is set 

Against us all; it is against 

The cattle in the field, and it was they 

Stood by His crib; they're moaning always 

now: 
He has forgotten them. 

Sheila 

Do not be listening to 

The cattle moaning; do not be watching 

The black rain and it falling all the day. 

AlSLINN 

You God has not forgotten. 

Sheila 

God has not forgotten 

Me, Aislinn. 

AlSLINN 

If He has left 

Your fields to the rain. He knows that you 

Have a good roof and riches under it. 

Sheila 

To have them is no sign 

That God remembers one: I used to look 

Upon my roof and riches, and yet say 

"You have forgotten me, Almighty God!" 



8o Dramatic Legends 

AlSLINN 

And could you say, 

When there was corn, "You have forgotten 

me. 
Almighty God?" 

Sheila 

And when I would look 

Upon my fields and they heavy with the 
grain, 

"You have remembered the furrows," I 
would say, 

"And they are fruitful, but you have for- 
gotten 

Me, Almighty God!" 

And now. 

Now when the furrows are forgotten. He, 
He has remembered me. O Aislinn, child. 
Your arms put round me — I would have you 

near: 
I want 

Your face before me; I would have a face 
Like yours, but glad; a child's face glad and 

bright! 

{Paudeen goes to the bin and opens it.) 



The Miracle of the Corn 8i 

Paudeen 

That*s empty, and that will take some filling, 

too; 
That's empty, and it will hold an apron-full; 
That's empty, and you can put more 
Than a cap-full in it. 

Sheila 

What are you doing at the bin, Paudeen ? 

Paudeen 

Making it ready to put corn in it. 
"Better have the corn in the bin," says he, 
"Than in the barn, after what happened 
Last night in the barn," says he. 

Sheila 

What was it happened? 

Paudeen 

"And only Gorav," says he, 

"Only Gorav, the good dog, got the man by 

the throat. 
There would be a thief in the parish and a 

wronged man," says he. 

Sheila 

The hard, hard man. 



82 Dramatic Legends 

Paudeen 

"There's a good door to my house," says he, 

"And the bin's within for corn; and if the 

priest/' says he. 
Can't put the fear of God into the people, 
Gorav, maybe, can," says he. 

That's empty, that's empty, that's empty. 

{Paudeen goes back to his place on the bench.) 

Sheila 

He has all 

The corn that's in the country, and he sets 

Brutes to guard it. The people bring their 

cattle 
Before he gives them corn to keep them 

living. 

AlSLINN 

I'm not a feared 
Of Fardorrougha. 

Sheila 

He is not set 

In hardness yet; he'll give back 

In arm-fulls what he took in his hands! 

AlSLINN 

Will it be long till then. 
Woman of Fardorrougha? 



The Miracle of the Corn 83 

Sheila 

Not long, not long: 

The fruit is ripening that will bring him to 

Himself; O Aislinn, do not think 

Too hardly of my man; there was no child 

About our house, Aislinn! 

{Fardorrougha goes to the bin, bringing with 
him a bag of corn.) 
Fardorrougha 

Woman of the house, be careful that you put 
The big bolt on the door when it gets dark. 

Sheila 

Let it not come 

Between you and your rest, Fardorrougha. 

Fardorrougha 
I grudge 

To give them corn even for what they bring 
me. 

Sheila 

Look at Aislinn here: 

Would you not let it all go with the wind 

To have a child like Aislinn for your own ? 

Fardorrougha 
Woman, content yourself 
With what is given. 



84 Dramatic Legends 

Sheila 

God has given 

House and mill, and land and riches, but not 

Content. 

Fardorrougha 
Then let what is not 
Trouble us not. 

Sheila 

Aislinn was with me all the day; Aislinn 
Will fill a bin for you. Aislinn, take 
A measure off the dresser, and help Fardor- 
rougha 
Empty the sack. 

Fardorrougha 

Aislinn! It was a woman surely 

That named her Dream. 

Sheila 

She is a biddable child, and one that's good 

About a house. 

Fardorrougha 

She'll have no need 

To do much while she's here. 

Sheila 

And isn't it well, Fardorrougha, 

To see a child that isn't white-faced? 



The Miracle of the Corn 85 



Fardorrougha 

The corn into the bin! 

Sheila 

Isn't it a comfort 

To see a child like Aislinn here? Then think 

Of a glad, bright child! 

Fardorrougha 

I have no thought 

To go that far. That world, woman, 

The world of bud and blossom, has gone by: 

There's only now. 

The ragged sky, the poor and wasted ground, 

The broken-spirited ones— the people 

Like you, and me, and Paudeen. 

Sheila 

No, Fardorrougha, no. 

Fardorrougha 

The world of bud and blossom has gone by. 

Sheila 

No, Fardorrougha. 

Listen to me, Fardorrougha! 

Fardorrougha 
Well, my woman. 



86 Dramatic Legends 

Sheila 

I have something, 

Fardorrougha, to tell to you. 

Fardorrougha 

And I am listening, woman. 

{Paudeen goes to the bin.) 

Paudeen 

Shaun o* the Bog is on the pass 

Before the barn. 

Fardorrougha 

Before the barn? Is it me he wants? 

Paudeen 

It's for the woman 

Of the house he's asking. " Is she by herself? " 

Says he to me. 

Fardorrougha 

She's not by herself, if that's the chance 

He's seeking. You, Sheila; 

There's something else you would have said, 

maybe, 
"Loose the corn you've gathered." Let you 

not. 
Or the harsh word that has not been, will be 
Between us. 



The Miracle of the Corn 87 



ril see the man, and if he wants to make it 
A bargain that is fair, it's with myself 
That he must talk. 

{Fardorrougha goes back to the bench. 
Paudeen has some hay in his hands. He has 
taken it from under where he sat.) 

Paudeen 

Where did he say 

I was to put the hay I got under the hedge? 

Sheila 

Where the cows are. O 

How can your mind keep on the hay ? I know : 

It is because you're simple! Or so they say. 

Paudeen, 

Why do they call you a fool ? Why 

Do they call him a fool, Aislinn? 

AlSLINN 

It is because 

His mind keeps on the one thing only. 

Sheila 

He can see only 

The hay that's in his hands. But then 
They are all foolish! Paudeen, they that 
gathered 



88 Dramatic Legends 

Many thoughts while in the womb are foolish 

now 
As you are. 

Paudeen 

But you said 

I was a clean, well-built boy, anyhow, 

Woman of the house. 

Sheila 

Yes, I said it. 

{Paudeen goes back to the bench,) 

AlSLINN 

Vm not afeard 

Of Fardorrougha: I do not think him hard. 

Sheila 

His heart opened to you. 

AlSLINN 

He knows that I 

Am not afeard of him. 

Sheila 

His heart opened to you, and that's a sign: 

Yes, that 's a sign I take. 

AlSLINN 

And do you think that he would ever give 
The harsh word to you ? 



The Miracle of the Corn 89 

Sheila 

O Aislinn, pray: 

Pray that it will never come to that; the 

thought 
Of the harsh word has come to me, 
Again and again, like some dark bird. 

AlSLINN 

And have you never had 
The harsh word from him ? 

Sheila 

But now 

The harsh word would be the end of all. 

Listen to me! Outside 's the rain: 

The desolation of the rain is near me: 

If he gave me 

The harsh word, the rain, the desolation 

Would be all round me, and what fruit could 

be? 
O glad, bright child of my dream! Apple 

blossom ! 
What fruit would you, tender and shining, 

make 
And the tree of you with desolation round it? 

{The three women leave the bench and come 
to the bin. One has a child with her.) 



go Dramatic Legends 

Sheila 

What can I do for you, women ? 

First Woman 

We have eaten 

Only nettles and roots since the want came: 

Our children droop. 

Second Woman 

You do not know what it is 

To see a child droop. 

Third Woman 

God has not opened 

Doors of madness and pain for you. 

{Sheila takes a vessel and holds it to a child 
who drinks^ 

First Woman 

Do not forget my child. 

Sheila 

Take 

What is in my house, women. 

{She opens the bin and fills a woman s 
apron with corn. The other women hold out 
their aprons. Sheila fills them?) 



The Miracle of the Corn 91 



First Woman 

May God 

Heap up store for you, and may you have 

Clan with store. 

Second Woman 

May God be with your husband when his 

hand 
Scatters the seed, and may his labor be 
Prosperous! 

Third Woman 

And may your own labor be 

Light, and watched by the Mother of God! 

Sheila 

Women, who am I 

That ye should pray for me! 

{The women go to the bench. Sheila stands 
quiet. Aislinn goes to her.) 

AlSLINN 

Now there is no more 
O' the corn. 

Sheila 

But God will have love 

And pity for us. 



g2 Dramatic Legends 

AlSLINN 

The bins are emptied — will Fardorrougha 

.? 

Sheila 
Ohush! 

There is the cattle's moan; here is Paudeen 
Who brings them hay — Paudeen who is 
With the broken things! My heart is heavy 
again ! 

AlSLINN 

Fardorrougha . . . 

Sheila 

Fardorrougha! I had forgotten him: 

God protect me! 

The rain, the rain! The black and ragged 

sky. 
The poor and wasted ground — how could 

there be 
Any but Paudeen's like. 

{Paudeen goes to the bin,) 

Paudeen 

But you said 

I was a clean and well-built boy yourself. 



The Miracle of the Corn 93 



Sheila 

I said it. And now, Paudeen, 

Open the bins. 

{Paudeen lets down the fronts of the bin and 
it is shown to be empty.) 

Paudeen 

O what will we tell 

Fardorrougha? Can any of you think 

Of a story to tell him? 

Sheila 

We can tell him 

No story at all. 

AlSLINN 

But we might 

Keep him from the bin. 

Sheila 

No, Aislinn, no: 

No good would be in that. 

It was the right I did. Their children now 
Around them crowd. O children, I would 

give 
Bread to you, again and over again! 



94 Dramatic Legends 

I, too. 

Was one of them who had their minds upon 

The one thing only; I hardened 

To make things easy for myself. It is not 

"God protect me," I should be saying now. 

But "God forgive me.'* 

(Shaun 6" the Bog comes from the bench. He 
goes to the bins,) 

Shaun 

Fardorrougha told me 
To wait upon him here. 

Sheila 

And what has Fardorrougha 

Promised to you, Shaun? 

Shaun 

The corn in the bins. And I have given 

My wool and loom to him. 

Sheila 

He has not what he thinks he has, but you 

Will not go empty for all that. 

Shaun 

It is well for Aislinn, 

The child that's with you in this house. 



The Miracle of the Corn 95 

Sheila 

Aislinn, go talk to Shaun; he need not be 

Anxious nor fretted. 

AlSLINN 

Nor need you be 

Anxious nor fretted, Sheila. 

Sheila 

I am not anxious any more, Aislinn. 

(Fardorrougha goes to the bin^ 

Fardorrougha 

The corn is here that I will give you, Shaun, 
For wool and loom; open you the bin. 
And see how much is in it. 

{Shaun opens the bin. A very great quantity 
of corn gushes out.) 

Fardorrougha 
I did not think 

So much was there. He'll not get all 
For wool and loom; I will not wrong my- 
self; 
As much as half is fair. 

{He turns to the bin and sees that Shaun^ 
Sheila and Aislinn are kneeling beside the 
heap oj corn.) 



96 Dramatic Legends 

Fardorrougha 

Why are you kneeling, Shaun? 

Shaun 

I kneel because I know 

My children will be fed. 

Fardorrougha 

Why are you kneeling, Sheila? 

Sheila 

I kneel because I know 

The fields will break to corn because of the 

love. 
And pity God has for us. 

Fardorrougha 

Why are you kneeling, Aislinn? 

AlSLINN 

I kneel because I know 

A miracle has happpened; Sheila need not 

dread 
The harsh word from you any more or never. 

Fardorrougha 

An air comes from it all — a smell of growing, 
Green, growing corn; and I mind that I 
Brought Sheila from her mother's to this 
house 



The Miracle of the Corn 97 

Across a field of corn that smelled sweet, 

sweet, 
And whispered lovingly. I*m greatly 

changed. 
And often I am strange even to myself. 
What good's in what I Ve gathered? It's 

between 
Myself and her; but when she rises now 
Nothing will be between us; at what she'll 

say 
All I have gathered I shall give away. 

{With Sheila^ A is linn y and Shaun still 
kneeling the scene closes,) 



Notes 99 



NOTES 



I. The Rune Master 

Kuno Meyer died in Germany in the autumn of 191 9. In 
the poem written on the announcement of his death, his 
translation of the dialogue between King Guire and his hermit 
brother Maravaun ("King and Hermit") is referred to, with 
his translation of "The Voyage of Bran " and one of the poems 
in his "Ancient Irish Poetry" called "The Tryst after Death. 

1. Wandering and Sojourning 

The two poems given under this title are translations from 
the Irish: The first, "Spring," is from the Irish of Raftery, a 
Connacht poet of the eighteenth century, and the second, 
"Autumn," is a versification of a passage m Kuno Meyers 
translation of a mediaeval tale. 

3. The Poor Girl's Meditation 

The original and a literal translation are given by Dr. 
Douglas Hyde in his "Love Songs of Connacht." 

4. The Wife of Tone 

This and the two pieces that follow were written for famous 
Irish airs— the first to the beautiful melody that is known as 
"The Londonderry Air," and the other two to the airs that 
give titles to them. "The Fair Hills of Eire" freely translates 
the first and last stanzas of the famous eighteenth eentury 
poem of exile, and "Shall I Go Bound and You Go Free is 
derived from the first line of a folk song that is given in one of 
Mr. Herbert Hughes' collections. The words of The Wife 
of Tone" paraphrase what the wife of Theobald Wolfe Tone, 
the leader of the United Irishmen, wrote in her journal on her 
parting with her son; in accordance with her husband s wish 
he had been brought up to take service with an army that 
was engaged in a war of national liberation. 



loo Dramatic Legends 



5. The Laments of Queen Gormlai 

These are renderings of four out of the eleven *' Poems 
Attributed to Queen Gormlaith," text and literal translations 
of which have been given by Professor Osborn Bergin. The 
poem on the burial of Niall has been nobly translated by Dr. 
Sigerson in his "Bards of the Gael and Gall" and by Dr. 
Douglas Hyde in his "Literary History of Ireland." The 
poems are in lamentation for the death of Niall Black-knee 
and for her own state of dependence in a Leinster household, 
away from her husband's Ulster kingdom. Niall Black-knee 
was killed near Dublin, in a battle with the Norse in 917. 
His wife Gormlaith lived for thirty-one years after his death. 
Professor Bergin declares that if the poems were actually 
written by Gormlaith they were altered afterward. 



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